Virtues of Alcoholism
by nobodymuch
Summary: I already had a pretty fair idea of who would be my Mad Hatter. Only I was quite certain that what was in his favorite bottles couldn’t possibly be tea. -POTC world, involving Jack Sparrow-
1. Methods of Transportation

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**Okay...well...I'm probably going to be shot for even thinking of this pairing. I don't know what it is about me and picturing out crack pairings lately, but it's as though the little muses in my mind have gone on a rampage. Please know that it's not all my fault, I swear. I blame a roleplay. A long, long roleplay that has left food for thought. And by long, I'm talking about nine-hundred pages in size 7.5 Verdana font that's been going on since July of '06. 

Anyways...PLEASE NOTE that this fanfiction is going to be in the point of view of none other than Elena from the Turks. The reason that this fic is placed in the Kingdom Hearts category is strictly because it deals with the prospect of travelling to a different world, which is, of course, only possible in the Kingdom Hearts games, not the Final Fantasy ones. I would place it under Pirates of the Carribbean, but I think that would simply confuse more people than are already going to be confused.

Okay, so...I'll let you all start reading now. Please don't run away. It's got Jack Sparrow in it. Who doesn't want to read something that features ol' Jack, eh?

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"There is nobody so irritating as somebody with less intelligence and more sense than we have." 

**Don Herold**

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**Virtues of Alcoholism**

I honestly don't know how I get myself into these situations. Currently, I was now accountable for the acts of piracy, theft, assault, and arson. Of course, I wasn't directly responsible for any of these crimes, but some of the blame did rest on me, as it was. Guilty by association, as some people would say.

I was only distantly conscious at the moment, lying uncomfortably on top of a wooden crate while I listened to a low string of curses someone off beside me was mumbling under their breath. My face felt flushed. Did I have a fever? I was pretty certain that I did. I felt cold and nauseous to boot. I think it had something to do with consuming a fair amount of rum. Was the rum the reason I was sick? Yes, I think it was the rum. Or at least, the rum contributed to it.

I'm fairly certain that I'm getting ahead of myself now, though. You need to hear the whole story to understand how I got where I am now, as I don't even fully understand it myself.

Let's start at the beginning.

Well, for one thing, none of these wild circumstances that I always seem to land myself in were ever listed in the job description when I was supposed to be temporarily filling in for Reno while he was out for a time, thanks to Cloud Strife and company. Somehow or other, that job became permanent even after Reno had returned to ShinRa.

One would think that having been trained as a Turk for a few years now would account for something. Intimidation should run through my veins. I should scare people off as though I'm a pariah with the bubonic plague. It should be _genetic_, at least. My father is a teacher at the ShinRa Military Academy. Adina, my older sister, also happens to be a member of the Turks.

Ah, that's right, wonderful, perfect, _Adina_, the cold-blooded murderess. Not that I haven't done my fair share of killing people as of late, but she apparently gets more attention because she's been doing it longer. God must have a cruel sense of humor, making us both end up with the Turks. While she gets to be tall, graceful, and silently threatening, I'm seen as the five foot two blonde bimbo, for whom it's a health hazard just to walk three feet without holding onto a railing of some sort and who can't keep her mouth shut to save her life. Perhaps they're correct in their assumption, but I'd like to think that these last few years have allowed me to mature just a little bit, and that some sort of lethal quality would creep into my appearance over time.

But, of course, things just can't go the way I want them to. It's as though someone's sewn a sign onto my back that just practically screams, "Hey! Use me as bait!" I've been kidnapped by that psycho Corneo guy, and then that silver-haired trio. I can hit a soup can with a gun from a hundred yards back, and yet people always assume that I'm a clueless little ditz who can't defend herself. The sad thing about this aforementioned assumption is that these same people almost always encounter me when I'm off of my game, and so it seems that they're usually right.

Moving along, it is worth mentioning that a few months back, ShinRa had launched a program that allowed for extreme studies into the depths of interspace. The sudden interest in what lay in the confines of the galaxy all had to do with a strange little meteor that landed smack dab in the middle of Midgar. Now, our scientists have been on quite the lookout for meteors and such in the last few years, but the speed at which this thing approached was simply unbelievable. It was as though it came out of nowhere. And the substance with which it was formed was something that no one in the entirety of the Planet had ever seen—solid, but gooey to the touch, and able to break off into smaller pieces that then bonded together again in new shapes and forms. Even stranger, when it actually landed on our planet, it was going at a remarkable speed, but there was hardly any crater or mark where it laid.

A remarkable discovery was made shortly after the exploration program was launched, one that ShinRa has been keeping to itself lately, so as not to make ordinary citizens panic—the discovery being that there are other _worlds_ out there. You'd have thought we'd have figured out this little tidbit when Sephiroth made himself known on our Planet as 'The Destroyer of Worlds'. But still, no one had ever really thought that there would be any worlds with other human life (And one world with only animal life, I've been told), some as oblivious to other worlds as we had previously been, others a bit more well-informed.

Every rocket in the ShinRa Vehicle Transportation facility was then promptly revamped to allow for interspace travel, and a few people have gone to some of these 'other worlds', and come back to tell the tale. Still, these rockets were currently off-limits to the majority of faculty and staff members at ShinRa, along with the public.

Leave it to Reno to go and break whatever rules and limits that are set down. How my red-haired comrade managed to drag me out of the comfort of my standard, sterilized office, I'll never know. Looking back, I'm fairly sure he mentioned something about there being coffee and doughnuts in the employee lounge. Laugh if you will, but working in a place like ShinRa builds up an appetite, and coffee and doughnuts are known to run out quicker than gold thrown out into the street by a generous prince. Even a Turk can appreciate a customary cup of Joe and sweet treat.

Without thinking, I had followed him, my nose buried in some paper work that I needed to get filled out. Granted, it wasn't due until a week from now, but I have a tendency to want things done as soon as possible. It wasn't until we were standing right before the door that clearly read, in big capital letters, 'RESTRICTED AREA. PERSONNEL ONLY.', that I realized we hadn't been going to the employee lounge at all. Before I could declare myself no part of whatever it was that he was planning and turn on my heel, he quickly explained his plot—he figured it wouldn't hurt to just use one of the many rockets kept by the launching pad.

I swear, he reminds me of a cat sometimes. I'm serious. He's tall and lanky, with these glinting blue-green eyes. He even walks like a cat, all predator-like and silent. And like any cat, he's got an insatiable curiosity of just about everything he feels like he doesn't understand.

"Oh, come _on_, Laney," he drawled, pausing to take a drag on one of his many cigarettes and blatantly ignoring the smaller, but still easily visible sign that screeched, 'NO SMOKING'. Ordinarily, I'd make some witty riposte about how he was butchering his lungs and could he _please_ put that thing out, because not everyone wanted to inhale the secondhand smoke from his cancer sticks. I wasn't in the mood today, though, as my head had been pounding all day long and I honestly wanted nothing more than to head home as soon as opportunity allowed where I could swallow about six Advil at a time and proceed to take a long, well-deserved nap. So instead, I merely flinched at his long-given nickname for me and exhaled my own personalized little Elena-sigh, one that reeked of agitation.

"Reno," I began, shuffling my papers once more for good measure. "If you want to get yourself fired, that's all nice and well, but _kindly_ leave me out of it. Why don't you go ask Rude?" I should have known better than to mention the word 'kind', for it was not one of my red-haired companion's known virtues.

He seemed to ignore the frustration in my voice with a remarkable amount of obstinacy, instead leaning against the wall and pausing to puff out a miniature smoke cloud before returning his feline gaze to me. "Aw, see I would, but Rude ain't here right now. He's off on a mission. And who's going to get _fired_?" he scoffed, shaking his head so his long, tomato-red ponytail swung back and forth a few times.

I grimaced and bit my lip, which is a habit for me in times of anxiety or frustration. When I'm around Reno, I usually end up biting my lip so much to the point where I can taste the rusty-salt flavor of blood. I didn't want to admit out loud that he had a point. As a Turk, there was hardly anyone in all of ShinRa who would dare even think of confronting him with the threat of firing him. The only one who might have the guts to do such a thing was Tseng, but he'd been dealing with Reno and his antics for years now, enough to know that the red-head was a much better Turk than he appeared to be at first glance. Plus, the guy is second-in-command, so _I_ certainly can't make any threats to him. I'm just 'the rookie', despite the fact that I've been with the group for years now.

He continued on with his efforts to persuade me, sticking out his lanky, marble-like arms to block my path from heading back down the hallway to the safety of my office. "Really, yo, it's a Friday. What other plans could you possibly have? It's not like we have to worry about being late for work tomorrow," the red-head yawned, lazily clenching what little was left of his cancer stick between two fingers.

I thought about reasoning that he wouldn't have the first idea on how to fly a rocket, but bit my tongue as I recalled that he happened to be an expert helicopter pilot, and trained daily in stimulations that dealt with vehicles like our newly revamped rockets. Finally, I masterfully exhaled again, my pale-blonde eyebrows furrowing. His trademark smirk instantly widened, for he knew that my sigh had been one of defeat.

I don't know what made me give into his demands. Perhaps I was simply less in the mood to argue than I'd thought. Perhaps I was tired of really not having anything better to do with my time on a Friday night. Or perhaps I was simply curious, too. For whatever the reason, I ended up getting in that damned rocket with him, making sure to buckle in all manner of seatbelts just in case he really was quite inexperienced with flying a rocket.

As it turned out, the ride was a smooth one. For the first few moments, we flew in silence, the only noise being Reno's occasional sigh that he'd at last completely burned down his dosage of nicotine. I stared out the window with genuine, child-like interest. I had never really seen space like this before. Everything was so…so _huge_. I had absolutely no idea where he planned on taking us, but for the moment, I was simply preoccupied with my first-class window-seat.

Finally, my comrade took it upon himself to break the silence between us, leaning back in his chair as he pulled up a radar screen featuring several of the long-awaited other worlds that I was able to view from my seat.

"This one looks promising, eh?" he inquired, pointing to one world a little off to the left on the screen. It came as no surprise to me that he'd gone for the gloomiest looking world featured on the map. When you're a Turk, you tend to develop little sadistic tendencies and likings for dark, gloomy things. I was the only one who was any different, and I am known for commonly enjoying puppies, flowers, sunshine, and whistling while I clean off a bloody knife. Oh, don't look at me like that. Is there really something wrong with trying to make my life seem a little bit cheerier when one has a job such as mine?

I didn't verbally respond to his inquiry, instead deciding to answer with a simple shrug of my shoulders. Truth be told, I didn't care where we went. My head was still pounding, and I figured that no matter what input I gave, he would still do whatever his selfish little heart desired. Such was my disinterest that I didn't even bother reading the minute-description that was offered on the world, figuring it couldn't be _too_ different from my own Planet. I was fairly certain that Reno wouldn't be picking the all-animal world if he was really looking for some amusement on a Friday night.

I couldn't have been more wrong. Not about the animal thing, but about the world being different. We ended up in a strange little town called Port Royal that seemed to be perpetually stuck in the late seventeenth century. My fellow Turk and I stared, wide-eyed, around us, spotting all kinds of people from your standard powdered-wig-wearing officials, to filthy pig farmers that looked as though they hoarded a lifetime supply of dirt on their body.

Reno being, well, Reno, he got over the shock of the different era much quicker than I did, and proceeded to drag me on to a place that drew people like him to it like honey draws flies—a tavern. Or a bar, or whatever the heck you want to call it. He took me to a freaking seventeenth-century _bar._

I'd been out drinking with him and Rude in the past, of course, but truly, the most I had ever drunk at one time was a simple cup of champagne. I sincerely doubt that qualified as 'getting tipsy'. Still, I think I'd have sooner spotted a cup of worms in this place before champagne, as it certainly didn't seem like a beverage that would be typical of it. I was too shocked to protest against being hauled over to this local pub, even though I did habitually flinch as we walked inside. The entire place was filled with drunken men and women, some of them squandering their money on a good many drinks, others simply snoozing in the corner with a dozen or so empty mugs lying beside them. So many aromas wafted through the air on miniscule breezes—everything from the acrid stench of many people who hadn't showered in what seemed like months at the very least, to the sickly sweet smell of warm rum.

Somehow or other, I ended up with a cup of the aforementioned liquid in front of me. The noise had driven me to it. There was so much senseless yelling and off-key music, I thought my head was going to explode, and upon barely hearing Reno's suggestion that a drink might do me good, I numbly ordered the beverage without even paying attention to what it was at first. We stuck out like sore thumbs in our standard navy blue Turk uniforms that were crisp and ironed and decidedly formal. Well, mine was crisp and ironed, anyways. I don't think Reno's ironed a shirt a day in his life. He wouldn't know an ironing board from a surfboard if it came up and bit him in the butt. Strangely though, no one seemed to care. Perhaps they were too intoxicated to care, or perhaps they got enough odd characters as it was. Either way, no one asked where we were from, or wildly started pointing in our direction and calling us witches of the dark arts.

I'm still not too terribly sure when Reno left the measly little table we picked up in the corner. By this point, he was probably off lying in some gutter, in a drunken stupor. I also had no real reckoning of just how much time had passed since we'd first entered the deafening tavern. All I was aware of was that suddenly a man with whom I was completely unfamiliar was taking a seat across from me as though I was a long-lost friend of his who he had decided to come over and talk to.

He flashed me a brief smile as he sat down, exposing a rainbow of golden and silver filled teeth, with only the occasional glimpse of white every now and then. If I'd ever thought in my life before that Reno was eccentric, I took it back now, for the man before me was the single _definition_ of the word. He wore a dark red bandana over his mass of black locks, with a number of shiny medallions and other knickknacks attached to the said bandana. Surprisingly enough, he was one of the better-dressed people in the vicinity, as opposed to the rest of the paying customers. Or at least, his outfit appeared better because he apparently attempted to keep it away from all of the grime and filth donning the rest of the people here. His face especially was quite different from anyone I've ever known, with more little ornaments strung to the end of his slight beard, and distinctive brown eyes that were highlighted by the mass of dark, blotchy kohl surrounding them.

Turning his attention away from me for a moment or so, he waved his hand frantically through the air so as to get the bartender to notice him, I could only assume, but it looked more to me as though he had some sort of poisonous lizard or something attached to his hand by its tongue and he was trying to shake it off desperately.

"Oy!" he shouted, his voice barely audible to the bartender in question above all the other racket going on. "Give me one over here, along with another for the lady!"

Taken aback by his action, I frowned and turned my attention to the mug full of rum I already had right in front of me—only to find it empty. Huh. That was odd. I didn't clearly remember drinking _any_ of it. I suppose that Reno had been right about one thing, however, for the sweet beverage seemed to have calmed the agonizing pain of my headache down to an annoying little pang every now and then.

A mere minute or so later, a slim, anorexic-looking attendant girl rushed by our table with two more ridiculously large glasses of rum that didn't so much resemble cups as they did tankards, depositing them in front of us while she whisked my other empty mug away.

My current company wasted no time in grabbing his own mug and downing its contents in all of maybe three sips total. It was like watching one of those Tootsie Roll commercials: 'Mr. Stranger, how many gulps does it take to get to the bottom of a huge-ass cup of rum?' 'Let's find out, shall we? One, two, three—Mmm. That hit the spot.' Once he was done with his drink, he glanced around the room for a moment, looking almost as though he half expected someone to be standing directly over his shoulder. When he turned to face me again, however, all traces of paranoia vanished, replaced by a rather amused grin.

I looked down, feeling uncomfortable in the strange man's presence. I knew of only one type of man who came and sat down next to girls that were by themselves in bars, and they weren't necessarily the charming fairy tale princes that whisked you off your feet and promised their undying love and affection to you. My face felt flushed, though whether it was from embarrassment or simply the alcohol, I didn't know.

"If you're trying to get in my pants, you can buzz off now," I mumbled, still not looking up into the man's almost dangerously intense brown eyes. I surprised myself with that one. I have a tendency of overreacting, but I was usually never _that_ blunt with my oh-so-witty statements.

He blinked once or twice, also apparently caught off-guard by my direct and rather quick assumption. The man opened his mouth once, closed it, opened it again, and then proceeded to close it once more, giving him the temporary appearance of a fish out of water.

"…I was trying to do no such thing," he insisted, still blinking as though I had slapped him across the face.

"Sure you weren't." Note that this statement was said with an exquisite amount of sarcasm on my part.

He gave another one of his paranoid stares around the room at that moment before suddenly leaning in closer to me, so close in fact, that I could smell the sticky, sugary aroma of the alcoholic drink on his breath. Considering he'd only had one drink—as far as I had observed, anyways—in the time he'd been here, the smell was far too strong on his breath than it should have been. I could only assume that perhaps he had ingested more of the beverage before coming here, which would account for his slight swaying motions back and forth in his seat.

"Listen here, Miss," he began, his voice dropping in volume although there was no chance of anyone overhearing us considering the current noise level in the pub. "I'm in rather a hurry tonight, and while you are certainly, ah, most attractive, I'm afraid I've no time for a one night stand, love."

I could only imagine that it was my turn to do the fishy-faces this time. I stared at him in complete and utter disbelief, unsure whether to be mad, insulted, or mildly amused. And here I'd thought I was the blunt one. I quickly took a gulp of my rum before the stress that his sudden remark had left on me could bring back my headache.

I settled for a combination of my first two options, and attempted a glare at him from my spot across the table. However, my vision was starting to grow fuzzy and things appeared to be blurrier than I remembered them being, so I couldn't even be sure if I was glaring directly at him. All in all, it didn't have as impressive an effect as I had hoped it would.

"What makes you think that I would ever want to crawl into bed with you in the first place?" I snarled, though it probably didn't resemble a snarl in the least. All in all, I was just proud of myself for not suddenly hiccupping in the middle of my sentence.

"Well, darling, who wouldn't?"

I chose to ignore this comment of his, finding that the respectable buzz I was working up—and I was fairly sure that this one had nothing to do with my headache whatsoever—was preventing me from making one of my usual sharp-tongued comebacks. Instead I took another long slurp from over the rim of my glass and stared down at my uniformly shined black dress shoes. Funny. I didn't recall having four feet before.

After a long lapse in the conversation, he cleared his throat and apparently decided to try again with small talk, though it was more than likely a lost cause. "So, lass, do you perhaps have a name?" he inquired, eyebrow arching upwards as he looked over my outfit that blended in about as much as a cactus blends in with a pot of tulips.

"Yes," I stated matter-of-factly, silently working hard towards keeping the slur out of my speech that so desperately wanted to crawl into it. "My name's Elena, so you can stop calling me that."

"Calling you what?" He simply grinned unrepentantly. "Lass, darling, or love?"

I paused briefly, considering this for a moment as I hadn't exactly thought it out. All I knew was that he was using nicknames for me, and I disliked them more than I even disliked 'Laney'. "All of them," I finally grumbled.

"All right. Miss Elena it is, then," he agreed, flashing me another silver-gold grin.

At that moment, the door of the crowded tavern opened, and two more men walked in, I assumed to simply do like everyone else was and get a drink. They were complete opposites, I noted, even through my state of slight intoxication. One was tall, with a mop of dirty-blond hair, and he was apparently missing an eyeball so that a wooden one took its place in the socket. The other was shorter, plumper, and he wasn't so much missing an eyeball as he was the vast majority of his graying hair.

I didn't think much of them as I looked their way once out of idle curiosity before finding the rum set before me of slightly greater interest, but the man sitting across from me suddenly went rigid in his seat. Noting how peculiar he was suddenly acting due to the two men's presence, I glanced their way again to try and see what was of such great interest—or horror—about them.

Without warning, he stood up suddenly, grabbing his empty mug and simply chugging it across the room. For someone who seemed as though he was inebriated, his aim was surprisingly good, for it went sailing over the heads of the two new men, only to shatter on the back of the head of a rather large male in the pub who I would say more resembled our early ape-like ancestors than a modern day human being. As the little glass bits shattered to the floor, Gorilla-Man turned around with much more speed than I would have thought capable of him and glared at the nearest person next to him, automatically assuming that whoever was closest to him in range must have thrown that glass.

What ensued next truly taught me the meaning of the phrase 'all Hell broke loose'. Men and women alike began to pummel the crap out of each other through the use of anything they could pick up and use to beat someone down. Suddenly chairs, tables, and even the anorexic-waitress chick that had brought me and the mysterious mug-throwing man with me our rum, had newfound uses in life such as those of Sock 'Em Boppers.

Before I could even register what was going on, my drinking partner was suddenly grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me along with him out the door hurriedly, causing me to drop my glass to the floor as I struggled to get the world into focus through the spinning that standing up so quickly had caused.

"What are you doing?!" I yelped, too shocked to even attempt to pull my scrawny little wrist out of his impenetrable grip while we ran along, escaping from the bar and all of its chaos. I was more focused on remaining upright, as the rum I had ingested had left me mimicking this man's swaying habits. _And_ I had definitely picked the wrong night to wear heels. Trust me—heels on cobblestones do not mix.

He chose not to answer me, instead proceeding to drag me all around the town that I was completely unfamiliar with, around corners and down the streets, until finally we stopped in a customary damp, dark alleyway. Even then, he didn't let go of my wrists, instead glancing around as though expecting to see the same two men from the bar suddenly pop up right beside him, even though I was almost certain that they had no more idea of what had just gone on than I did.

I tried to catch my breath, for while I can run for long amounts of time and at fair speeds, I only reach a grand height of one inch over five feet, while he was a good head and a half taller than I was. It had taken about three steps on my part for every one of his long, loping ones. Vaguely, I wondered if he would have perhaps slowed down if I had actually fallen while we were running. Something in my gut told me that he probably would have merely kept on dragging me, however.

"_Hello_?!" I tried again. My voice began rising in volume and octaves, as is customary when I'm upset about something. "What the heck was _that_?!"

He finally seemed to acknowledge my presence once more and slammed his hand over my mouth as my voice threatened to echo all the way to several more of the other worlds out there in the depths of interspace. "That was a distraction, love, the whole point of which will be worthless if you continue to shout like that so everyone in the entire city can hear you. Savvy?"

I wasn't paying attention to his words, though, because my perfectionistic, germophobic mind froze the instant that I felt his _dirty_, _filthy_ hand covering my _mouth_. All the years of training as a Turk seemed to kick into effect as I wrenched my arm free from him in one swift movement, instantly grabbing onto his hand and yanking it away before swinging him around so he hit one of the walls in the alleyway with mind-staggering force. He must not have been expecting such a feat from me, for he stared at me in a startled fashion while I fumbled for my gun. After a minute or so, I gave up on trying to find where I'd put the stupid weapon, deciding that the rum rushing through my veins wouldn't allow me to hold onto it properly even if I did find it.

I braced myself against the wall opposite him in the alleyway, partially for standing support, and partially so I could better attempt to keep my eyes narrowed at him. "Who are you?" I hissed, all screaming forgotten now.

He blinked once or twice and rubbed the side of his head tenderly where it had collided with the wall, staring at me with renewed curiosity evident in his memorable features. "Well, now…where did you learn a trick like that?" he asked softly, as though he hadn't heard my own inquiry.

"I asked you something first!" I shot back, irritated.

"If you _must_ know," he began with a sigh, muttering something under his breath regarding women and just how difficult they were, "I'm _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. Now, tell me just how a girl like you learned to fight like that," the self-proclaimed captain demanded, waving his hands through the air for added effect to show his impatience.

I regarded him suspiciously, wondering just why he wanted to know anyways. After much arguing with myself in my own intoxicated mind, I came to the conclusion that it probably wouldn't hurt anything to give him some of the truth without giving him all of the specifics.

"I've _been_ learning for a few years now," I declared, still keeping my measly excuse of a glare locked onto his blurry figure. I hoped that by announcing such a fact, perhaps he would back off of my case and leave me to find my red-haired companion so we could fly back home where I could proceed to murder said companion in peace.

Of course, I had no such luck. In fact, my luck is so terribly awful as of late that I am starting to wonder if someone pushes me under ladders or lets black cats run back and forth across my path in my sleep. It certainly would account for a lot.

In any case, the course of action that this Jack Sparrow took was not one of retreat. Rather, it was something that I had most definitely not been expecting, and thus he caught me completely by surprise. He regarded me with fascination in his smoldering brown eyes, looking me up and down now as though I was an interesting new fish on display at a local aquarium—that is, if they even _have_ aquariums here in the perpetual epitome of the late seventeenth century.

"That's interesting," he finally commented, lazily bobbing his head up and down once as though to prove his statement's worth. Without warning, his marble-like arms suddenly shot up and latched onto the sides of my abdomen. He hoisted me up with relative ease and then flung me over one shoulder, spinning me around so that my head and torso came down to about his lower back. My legs abruptly hung in the air, searching in vain for ground that was no longer there. All in all, I would have to say that my position was one that is more commonly witnessed when people carry around sacks of potatoes—not young ladies.

Without waiting for me to adjust to this new position, he began walking onward. If he hadn't been using his full strength in dragging me along before, he was certainly doing so now, for I found that the one arm he was bothering to hold me steady with possessed an even more inescapable grasp than his previous grip had.

I stared at the ground down beneath me, instinctively clawing at the back of his shirt with my hands, struggling to hold onto something. "What the…what are you doing?! Put me down!" I shrieked, but his shirt muffled my voice and thus diminished some of the volume that I had been hoping for. A moment or so later, I jammed my eyes shut tight, for the cobblestones loomed at me while I bounced violently along in my uncomfortable position. I didn't much fancy cracking my skull open on the pavement, and all of this jiggling around was threatening to make the rum souring in my stomach suddenly rebel.

He ignored both my question and demand, continuing to carry me off to only God knew where in the potato-sack fashion. "You know, dear, you should probably consider trying to lose a few pounds. You're a fair bit heavier than you look," he drawled and then grunted as he hoisted me up further onto his shoulder in an attempt to make carrying me easier on his part.

I disregarded the fact that this strange and more than likely psychosomatic man had practically called me fat to my face, instead muttering every remotely obscene thing that I had ever heard Reno use when blatantly complaining about something or other at ShinRa. My legs now flailed wildly in the hopes that one of my lethal high heels could perhaps squash his nose like an overripened melon, but much to my disappointment, they were too short, and thus my target was just out of reach.

"Let me _go_!" I screeched once again. A heavy sigh was the only response he offered, and so the single satisfaction that I had from this whole situation was that at least while he was dragging me off, he had no way of silencing my bold and powerful voice.

Just before we could round yet another corner in this maze of a town (He had already made his way, with me in tow, around more than I had cared to count, considering my eyelids were still tightly clamped together), a new and unfamiliar voice could be heard, and my kidnapper stopped in his tracks, exhaling in aggravation.

"Jack Sparrow, I presume." The sneer that was no doubt on this unknown (and unseen on my part) man's face was almost audible in his tone as well. "I suppose it's not enough that your disgusting acts of piracy have already managed to get half of the Queen's Navy on your trail, but now you feel the need to kidnap an innocent maiden? You'll be a lucky man if your _only_ punishment is death by hanging."

I opened my eyes against my better judgment, just in time to catch a glimpse of a man whose powdered wig and fancy, shiny outfit simply oozed authority and superiority in every strand and stitch. But then Jack turned on his heel to face the man instead, and I was left with a dizzy, out-of-focus view of the darkened streets of Port Royal once more. At least we weren't running anymore at the moment. My stomach definitely couldn't take much more of the running before it sent back up its contents.

"Commodore Norrington!" Jack Sparrow greeted. "What a pleasant surprise!" The rather amusing thing about this statement was the fact that he did in fact state it as though he and this apparent Commodore were long-time friends, even though it was more than a little obvious that the military official of Port Royal less than considered Jack a companion.

Without waiting for a response from the Commodore, my kidnapping stranger shifted to look down at me for a minute before his gaze lifted back up to the man. "Aye, mate, she's a maiden, all right. But I would hardly call her innocent. She slammed me head into a wall. I believe that's assault, no?"

I had just been about to open my mouth and make a sarcastically grateful remark that Jack had at least established my gender correctly, but I was forced to pause as I realized…he was right. I _had_ hit him first, and I could hardly reason that it had been in self defense considering the worst he had done at the time was place his hand over my mouth.

Norrington exhaled in a sigh that sounded much like how my own could, expressing how his great, withstanding nerves were wearing thin. "Sparrow, I am offering you a chance to give yourself up now. Hand the girl over, and I won't have to harm you while taking you over to the prison keepers once more."

"With all due respect, mate, the rest of your lot is going to hang me by me neck the minute they're sure I can't escape from their lovely little cells—_again_. That doesn't give me much incentive to be handin' her over, now does it?"

Apparently, while my oddball captor did not apparently feel like 'handing me over' like one would currency, or perhaps some vintage trading card, he did see fit to let go of me just then, confident that I was too dizzy to run anywhere just yet. I hated him all the more because this postulation of his happened to be correct. He made no move to grab the sword dangling from his belt, and simply looked about the alleyway as though he had lost something important.

"I sincerely hope that you can fight, Sparrow," the Commodore quipped in quite the sardonic tone. "You are without a doubt the _worst_ pirate I've ever heard of."

The emphasized word didn't catch what little remained of my woozy attention as I simply laid there, sprawled out in a heap on the ground, but a different one certainly did. My head snapped up and I turned to stare incredulously at Jack Sparrow.

"Pirate?!" I repeated, sounding about as thick as a peanut butter and mud sandwich.

Both men turned to stare briefly at me. I only managed to stare blankly back in response. It occurred to me now that that small little fact must have been blatantly obvious to any local citizen in this town—or even possibly in this world—and my already flustered face reddened. Well, heck, how was I supposed to know? The only pictures of pirates that I'd ever really seen back on my own Planet had been in a few storybooks of mine that I'd had when I was younger—and they usually all involved peg legs, eye patches, and talking parrots. I hadn't seen those books in years, and I'd never felt any interest to watch television programs or movies regarding pirates.

Jack decided to go back to ignoring me for the moment. His face brightened as he turned to his other side and spotted a torch resting in an iron holder that jutted out from one of the stone walls at a ninety degree angle.

"Ah, but you _have_ heard of me," Jack pointed out with a grin in response to the official's previous sentence. "In any case, old chum…While I am, sadly, lacking the time to show you my fighting expertise; I hope that you can show me how you catch," he grinned. Before my fuzzy mind could process the threat behind his words, Jack had already tossed the torch into the air towards the Commodore, who had no time to do anything, save for promptly step back and out of its path.

As luck would have it (and considering this is Jack Sparrow that I am talking about, it is yet to be determined whether or not that luck is good or bad), the space where the Commodore had been standing was filled with hay, oats, leaves, and a pile of other highly flammable silage that might otherwise have served as some horse's tasty meal. The mass of fodder caught flame instantly, and in all of two seconds, those flames were leaping towards the small wooden shack not three feet away from the large heap.

Commodore Norrington looked frantically back and forth between Jack and the blazing shack. With one last bitter glare at my kooky pirate kidnapper, he finally came to the conclusion that the burning building was of more importance than putting this peculiar man behind bars for an apparent second time.

"Time to go!" the pirate announced cheerfully, to me I suppose since I was the only one present besides himself since Norrington had just run off. Without waiting for a reply or reaction, he had hoisted me up and slung me over one shoulder again, and was paying no more attention to the flames engulfing the hovel.

I tightly clamped my eyes together as the running started again, putting up much less of a fight about being carried this way than I had the first time. I found that all my dizziness had drained the strength required to rebel right out of me. Either a few hours or a few minutes later (I wasn't sure which, as I hadn't been paying attention) I could suddenly hear waves slapping against something. It wasn't the gentle lull of waves breaking on the sea, but rather a hard, continuous _slap-slap-slap_. I opened one eye open a slit, only to see that we were now in fact at a pier of sorts. Even though I couldn't see where we were going due to the fact that I was facing backwards, I could only assume that it was, presumably, to find his ship.

No sooner were we at the ship that I had accurately predicted in my intoxication than he swung me around, setting me down on my feet this time instead of dropping me as he had before. Although there was still no chance that I would successfully be able to run away at this point in time, he held me in place with one of his surprisingly strong hands all the same, just in case. I found I was actually grateful for the support—I was still swaying due to all the rum, and the rocking of the ship under my feet made me liable to fall flat on my face without even so much as moving an inch from my position.

A sudden wave of nausea in me prevented me from making the sarcastic remark that I'd been practicing my mind, and I could only stare around the surprisingly well taken care of and clean ship before returning my gaze to his face and finding that he was giving me another silver-and-gold grin.

"All righty then! You just make yourself comfy-wumfy for the time being, aye? I must converse with the young Mr. Turner for a little while—we can start talking about your crew duties tomorrow," he declared, finally removing his hand from my shoulder and swiveling around to go find this so-called Mr. Turner.

No sooner had his hand left than did I start swaying much more violently, the nausea peaking to a dangerous level. I didn't have time to inquire what he meant by all of this—that is, kidnapping me, 'crew duties', his accomplice Mr. Turner, and setting a building on fire—before I suddenly crumpled into an involuntary heap on the deck with a loud _thud_.

As ditzy and utterly blonde as most people who see me assume me to be, I usually am _not_ one for fainting. It was a good thing that Reno was probably still conked out cold in a ditch somewhere, because had he witnessed me simply passing out like that, he would never have let me live it down.

Some of my consciousness remained with me enough for me to remain dimly aware when Jack glanced back my way, startled, and rushed over to find out just what my problem with standing was. He knelt down by my side, poking and prodding at my arms and shoulders as though there was some switch concealed in my attire that would suddenly make me get back on my feet.

"Hey now, can't you get back up?" he demanded to know, his eyebrows furrowing.

"No…" I moaned, fighting to keep myself from hurling up the contents of my stomach.

He stared at me intently with those bright brown eyes of his, finally ceasing to jab me with his finger. He pressed one rough, calloused hand to my forehead and though I instinctively squirmed at thinking of the dirt and germs that must have been covering it, I didn't have the strength to push it away.

When he removed his hand, he continued to stare, his eyebrows furrowing in slight aggravation that seemed ill-suited with the rest of his face. "Let's get this straight, shall we? You're not from around here, are you not?"

"No." I was grateful that I was only required to give a one-word answer—the longer I kept my mouth open to respond, the more dangerous it was.

"And how much alcohol can you usually stomach, lass?"

"Ugh…a glass or…or two? Of champagne."

"And you mean to tell me that you decided to hang around a local tavern in the lovely Port Royal where it's rare to end up gettin' a tankard of rum that's smaller than the size of your head?"

"…Mmmhmm."

He simply kept staring at me in a disbelieving fashion before his head suddenly whipped up, looking around the ship resolutely.

"William!" he hollered. "Come 'ere and tend to this gal!"

A male voice that couldn't have belonged to a man a day over twenty answered him, panting slightly and sounding more than a little frustrated with the pirate when it did so. "I _can't_—I'm getting the ship under way, like _you_ told me to, in case you've forgotten!"

There was a long pause from Jack, in which I simply focused on not giving in to the urge to spew chunks all over the place. He looked from me, then up in a direction that I and my dim, blurry vision weren't able to glimpse (More than likely he was looking at this Turner guy, who was no doubt the source of the other voice), and then back again.

"Aw, _hells_." Heaving a sigh, he picked me up. Thankfully, he decided to carry me in a different fashion than he had the first time, using both arms instead of flinging me over one shoulder. We came over to what I guessed was a pile of crates after being lowered—more like dumped, really—onto them. I was just taking a lucky guess here. I could have been lying on a feather bed with goose-down pillows and I wouldn't have known. All that I was aware of was that I was no longer being forced to carrying out the dizzying action of walking.

From that point on, I'm not really sure what happened. I must have fallen asleep, or passed out, for a time because the next thing I recalled was what I described at the beginning of this explanation to you. I didn't really feel much better now that I was awake, considering that, while my state of intoxication had died down, my face was now flushed with fever.

I listened to Jack and his steady stream of profanities for a long moment, keeping my eyelids shut because I was exhausted and it felt as though it would take too much energy to force them open. I finally decided to give the pirate some sign that I was awake for the moment, letting out a long, slow groan.

"Ah! So you have seen fit to rejoin the land of the living! Wonderful."

I ignored this comment, rolling over onto my side, which was a rather difficult feat considering the crates that I was on top of offered about as much support for my frame as a giant slab of rock would. "I feel sick," I moaned. The only good thing about this was that at least I was too nauseated at the moment to register the splitting headache that would no doubt accompany whatever massive hangover I was probably experiencing right about now.

"Well, darling, you _are_ sick. Just peachy, if you ask me," Jack muttered. I could tell that he was aggravated about something or other without even looking his way.

"It's just a cold, Jack. She'll be better in no time," another voice stuck up in my defense. This was probably Will Turner speaking once more. I vaguely wondered what he looked like, considering I hadn't had a view of him beforehand and my eyes were still closed tight now.

"Whatever the case may be, Mr. Turner," the pirate began, "the whole point of my going out and searching for more help aboard this vessel was so it would make this whole voyage _easier_. Babysitting isn't exactly lessening my loads, lad."

I didn't bother to point out that he was the one who had kidnapped me. If it were my choice, I wouldn't be here at all. I'd be back at home, swallowing too much Advil and remaining free from seventeenth-century bars and oddball pirates. I instead focused on just why I had gotten so sick, so suddenly, and came to the conclusion that it had to be the day and age of this other world. For as tough as we are, we Turks are still city-people. Midgar doesn't exactly offer the same multitudes of viruses and bacteria that were swarming around this town, and so my immune system had been completely and utterly caught off guard.

Of course, the rum had probably contributed to it, too. And the fact that I'd already had a headache all day long to start with probably hadn't made matters any better…

"Now that you've kidnapped me when I'm awake, are you going to shoot me if I go back to sleep?" I mumbled, curling up on the crate and letting my fatigued eyes remain clamped.

"Even though it's mighty tempting at the moment, I'm afraid not, love." Apparently that was his last word on the subject, for I could hear him suddenly stand up and walk to elsewhere on the ship.

My eyebrows furrowed in frustration, and I uttered a grumpy, "I told you to stop with the nicknames," before frowning and drifting back off to sleep.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, yes, it's LONG! Well, for my writing anyways. 

If anything, I can rest assured knowing that I've tried to please Vixen. She read the first seven or so pages of this chapter shortly after the idea of it came to my mind, and she seemed happy with it. So, my dear friend Vixen, I do hope you like it so far.

Oh, and about Elena's sister's name--well, Wikipedia said there isn't one. She is referred to as "Female Turk (Guns)" in the Before Crisis game. I didn't think that would work very well in a fanfiction, so I kind of cheated. I stole the name of the sister of a different Elena in a different video game. x3 Worked out just fine in the end, so I'm perfectly all right with it. Sorry if I confused anyone.

I will be continuing this fanfiction, of course, though for how long it will go on, I am unsure. I may follow strictly by the guidlines and events of the first movie, all three movies, or I may simply 'hang the code' and think up my own little plots.

Know that the relationship between poor Elena and our dearest Captain, already at rock bottom, will probably grab a shovel and start to dig.

I hope you all enjoy this so far! Reviews are appreciated, but I won't force them considering I'm sure the majority of you will say something along the lines of 'Go die for thinking this up'. x3

Oh, and the quote at the beginning pretty much sums up Elena and Jack in a nutshell. Yep, yep.


	2. Sobriety and Its Pains

**A/N:** Six months into hibernation, and I finally woke this thing up. Elena's point of view is probably one of the most fun I've ever portrayed in a story. But describing Jack probably adds to that.

xD I'm hoping for a few more reviews this time, but if I can't get 'em, ah well. I thrive off reviews because otherwise life is boring.

Enjoy, would you? Oh, and don't worry. You'll be seeing more of Reno later.

* * *

"A man is never drunk if he can lie on the floor without holding on."

**Joe E. Lewis**

---

**Sobriety and Its Pains**

When I awoke, the world seemed to be on fire. Or perhaps that was only the intense glare of the sunlight shining directly into my eyes enough to make my tired mind _think_ it was on fire. Either way, it hurt. I could feel the harmful UV rays burning onto my retinas and scorching all the way through to leave a sunny imprint on my mind. Automatically, I groaned and rolled over—and took note of the fact that my bed was unnaturally wooden and my back was stiff from lying on it all night.

A part of my subconscious could not quite comprehend why I felt so decidedly tired. Or why my bed seemed to have been moved somewhere outside. Living amidst so much smog and pollution, I actually enjoy the outdoors a good deal. Sunshine and flowers and cute, picturesque little streams—I love it all. The same as I love raging river rapids and rock climbing and camping with few or no resources, actually. I wouldn't be a Turk otherwise if I lacked ability to put up with the extreme in addition to my adoration of all things cute and sugarcoated.

Not only that, but I'm actually a morning person. To me, there's nothing better than waking up and feeling as though you actually got some sleep even though it's five-thirty in the morning and still dark outside. To Reno, there's no greater form of torture. And all of us, as Turks, _know_ about torture. My attitude is always best in the morning (especially after a good cup of coffee with some cream and about six packs of sugar thrown in there), optimistic around noon, and steadily on a downhill course by nightfall.

All of this contributed to why it just didn't make sense that I would suddenly wake up and feel hot, sweaty, miserable, and, above all else, exhausted. True, maybe waking up on the literal wrong side of the bed might affect my attitude more than I was used to, but the last time I'd ever felt so drained when first waking up was back in grade school, when I had been sick with a stomach virus.

…Oh. _Sick_.

My eyes opened a little wider as I fought the urge to squint them, letting the harsh sunlight fully reflect off my golden-brown irises. Sun. Blue sky. Clouds. Sails. I sat up a little straighter and my back screamed in protest, but went ignored for the time being. The sight of coarse, wooden masts and the taste of salt in the air were slowly bringing the events of the previous night back to me. Rather than overflowing, they were trickling back. Sort of like a goopy, overly viscous mud puddle.

For how long I had been asleep, I wasn't entirely sure. It had most certainly been night the last time I had bothered cracking my eyes open a slit. Maybe my vision was just unreliable though; everything was all so blurry. And a fever usually makes memories hazier anyway. My hand instinctively flew up to my forehead, but the fever was gone by now.

Unfortunately, the hangover was not. I apparently had not been conked out long enough to sleep it all off. See, this was precisely why I usually never bothered with alcohol in the first place. Where in the world(s) was my Advil now? I needed some desperately, and as my location seemed to be onboard a mostly unfamiliar, currently-sailing ship, my luck seemed as though it was in its normal state: screwed.

The first thing I recalled after my location and the reason behind the intense pain in my head just had to go and be Sparrow. Forget the Advil. I wanted my gun. The very thought of my kooky, pirate kidnapper was more than enough to double the throbbing in my skull. My intentions now turned murderous and with a sudden bloodlust that only a Turk can perfect after years of tedious practice, I attempted to leap up off of my crate to stalk off elsewhere. How long it would take to locate him didn't matter; where could he possibly hide on a ship?

Unfortunately, my plans had to be put on hold as I hardly could get a step in before the entire world was spinning, and the ground rushed up to meet my face. Wooziness, dizziness, and nausea combined with my headache weren't something I had taken to account in getting to my feet so quickly. Even before I could take my literal hit to the deck, my eyes were jammed shut as I internally cursed at myself, awaiting the pain that was sure to come. On the bright side, maybe my smooth maneuver would result in getting Jack to come into view anyway.

Then again, I might then be in too much pain to move and he would find the time to go into an appropriate fit of snickering at my expense. That sounded about right.

To my great surprise, the following crash of head on wood never came—I was rescued, swept into unknown arms as though I was as light as my sister and not short, stocky. Whipping my blonde head around to see just what was going on, as Jack could _hardly_ be the type to find the time to bother saving me when it was of no profit for him and when it had proven such a challenge to look after me while sick with a temperature, I was startled.

More memories oozing back to me, my tired mind reminded me of the unrecognizable voice that I'd heard in the midst of my sick episode. Up until this point, I had suspected that the voice might be nothing more than a hallucination from my fever. It wouldn't have been unusual to imagine that a fellow victim was on this seventeenth-century vessel, suffering from Sparrow's antics and almost as annoyed with him as I was. Now, however, I could see that that wasn't the case at all. There was actually someone else sane around, someone who knew of my kidnapping and might be able to assist me.

But perhaps what I was suddenly more preoccupied with was how the face I was suddenly staring into was surprisingly almost as memorable as Jack. Gruffer, dirtier really, but nonetheless with an almost timid quality to it and brown eyes that sparkled (did I really just use that participle in regard to a _guy_?) with some unknown fire. They weren't the same sort of brown eyes that Jack was in possession of, certainly. While the most striking I had ever seen, _those_ particular eyes shone with nothing more than avarice and selfishness. I could remember that much.

He looked about as tired as I felt, this Mr. Turner that my incomprehensible enigma of a kidnapping pirate barked orders at. Everything about him was rough, from the hands gripping my arm and waist protectively to the sun-weathered skin of his face. If anything, he was worse off, with circles under his eyes that were possibly on the verge of extending to his kneecaps. But he couldn't have been a day older than me.

I felt a wave of pity wash over me for the poor young man. That is one of my problems. Despite the fact that I pretty much make a living as a hired killer—though, don't worry, they put that in nicer terms at ShinRa—my sugarcoated side has this insane need to help people out. When I'm not, you know, supposed to be shooting them and stuff. I swallowed once or twice, realized the pathetic state I was in, and unsuccessfully attempted to straighten up just a little bit. My dignity was probably a thing of the past here anyway, but I could dream.

"Um. Thanks...er…" Yeah, all the weapons I'm authorized to use and perhaps the thing people should fear most about my five-foot-two stature is my oh-so-incredible coherency. I just can't win. Some days, it's like my mouth won't shut off; the more nervous I get, the more I'm like a stuttering lawn sprinkler that keeps gushing out absolutely worthless pieces of information. And other days you can't even get me stringing together sentences correctly, as my face flushes too much and. Both usually happen in the midst of Tseng's office, and both result in the same amount of humiliation either way.

Not only was I at a loss for words around my roughly handsome savior, but I had only just now realized that I didn't know his name. Well, I had a last name, but that didn't count. These people were from the seventeenth century in a planet I'd never even heard of before, and I was from current-day Midgar. Calling people by their last name might have been all the rage then, but I was going to stick to my own customs. I _would_ have been even more content to just mind my own business, but it seemed that Sparrow had been intent on yanking me out of my comfort zone and taking me away from any means of transportation that I had had arranged for getting back home.

At least it was only Saturday. I still had time to get back to Port Royal and the rocket with it. …I hoped. That was, _if_ I could get back to Port Royal, and _if_ Reno hadn't already woken up from his gutter-slumber and returned to Midgar without me. I wouldn't put it past him, the tomato-haired bastard. And _if_ I hadn't already been asleep longer than one day.

He seemed amused by my inability to speak, smiling slightly. I noted with some satisfaction that, while the rest of him wasn't quite as clean as I would have preferred for someone holding me so unceremoniously, his teeth were brushed to near-perfection. And they couldn't possibly have had braces in this time period. That was both interesting and a relief that my germaphobic nature wouldn't be plagued looking at every single person I met here.

Understanding part of the reason behind my lack of communication here, Mr. Turner apparently decided to help me out. "William. But you can call me Will," he offered.

Will. Hmm. A nice name for a nice guy. And easy to remember too. Oh, and as an added bonus, 'William Turner' had a distinctly different, more sophisticated tone to it that was at least better than something mysterious enough to the point where it was infuriating, like 'Jack Sparrow.'

As I shifted to where my feet were more reliably placed on the ship's deck, I decided to give it another shot at standing upright on my own. Being held up by someone I didn't even know was embarrassing after all, and after an entire night of being carried around by a drunken buffoon in potato-sack fashion, I wanted to prove to whomever else happened to be watching that I wasn't completely incapable of doing things for myself. It was so unfair. I was a talented young woman. Why was it that the Fates seemed to be set against my ever showing it to other people?

No wonder Reno had such a field day finding things to insult about me on a daily basis. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

"I'm—" I began to respond, feeling it only polite that he should know my name as well. But Will simply rose up a hand to cut me off, shaking his head marginally. I appreciated the gesture, actually. The only other experience I'd had with people interrupting my sentences was usually when Reno made some sort of grotesque noise effect in the midst of some explanation I had to give, proving that he was both disgusting and not listening to a single word that I was saying.

"Jack's already told me most about what happened. Miss Elena, correct?"

I was surprised he hadn't taken his pick of telling this Will either lass, darling, or love. Maybe my kidnapper wasn't quite as daring as he liked to pretend; he knew I'd just smack him for it the instant I found out upon awakening.

I could already feel my face heating up at the thought of what a conversation that must have been. Jack's hand motions alone gave me the impression that he would exaggerate whatever he could to get the most kick out of any particular story. "Oh," I mumbled, averting my eyes to the ground.

A moment of silence passed between us, and it wasn't as awkward as it might have been. Around someone so polite, I could feel more like myself. Even after suffering from hangovers, high temperatures, and all kinds of new lessons in humility. That was one good thing about the past: manners weren't completely forgotten by _everyone_. Thankfully, Jack Sparrow only made up a miniscule fraction of the population, which was good because no world could certainly handle two of him. The only other member of the male gender (males being more like a different species in themselves, I had realized long ago) that I knew who seemed so genuinely courteous would have to be Tseng. That might be a good thing if he actually seemed to be aware of my existence.

I had come into the Turks as an awkward high school girl, still apt to wear skirts and eager to please. And now, years later, I was more poised, _slightly_ less of a chatterbox, and quite efficient at my job. And Aerith was dead—perhaps that was the biggest change of all. I knew better than to remind the leader of our group about the dinner that he had promised me what felt like so long ago.

Not only was that offer made before he suffered a vicious stab in his abdomen, nearly faced death, and had to be kept in the emergency room of ShinRa's finest hospital facilities for months at a time, but we had practically been different people then. I knew who he cared about, simply because I know almost everything about Tseng. And don't you dare call me a stalker. I feel close to him, is all; it's not like I follow him home.

Moving on with things, I would like to clarify: Will doesn't remind me of Tseng, really. That seemed to be the only thing between the two of them that I could recognize as a common factor. As far as looks, speech, and overall behavior went, they were fairly different. I felt something for my rescuer as I stood here silently observing the floor, but it wasn't what could be compared to all the things I thought I had felt for the Turk leader since my very first day of work. This was more like…genuine friendship.

And honestly, I was just as unfamiliar with that as I was with the various tangles, ups, and downs, of puppy love. I had grown up as second best to a near-perfect older sister with a father who taught military tactics. As a child, I hadn't exactly been the 'popular girl' on the block. It hadn't gotten any better in middle school days, thanks to Adina's early involvement with the Turks. I could recall being so angry with the way that nearly everyone I met would automatically assume that I was to follow in her footsteps. No one wanted to be friends with someone who was going to end up being a Turk. Turks were to be feared, not befriended.

I guess I sort of proved them right.

"Are you feeling better?" he inquired without warning. The sudden question jerked me out of my reverie, and I nodded hurriedly—which, as you might imagine, didn't do wonders for my cranium. Grimacing, I didn't honestly want to ponder what a _lovely_ image I must have been earlier. Sprawled out across a crate, burning up with a fever that had to be over a hundred-and-one degrees, drunk, and utterly helpless for all my lethal-combat training against just one pirate. How attractive.

Will smiled sympathetically as though able to guess my thoughts. "I hope you'll get used to this sort of thing. Honestly, I'm not much happier to be here than you are," he said. I vaguely wondered just how and why he had been forced into the company of Jack Sparrow as well, but didn't feel like asking. If he wasn't up for explaining it freely, then it really wasn't any of my business. "You still look tired. Perhaps more rest would be the best—the sea isn't likely to be so calm again," he advised.

With that being said, he turned quickly to go. As far as I could see, he was the only other person on the ship, after the one specific pirate that I didn't much want to think about. The thought that perhaps William Turner might be a pirate as well was absolutely preposterous, so I kept it well out of my head. He was obviously just another victim here. I could only assume that he was being forced into some duty of the crew, and a frown etched itself onto my features. Hopefully he wouldn't be the only one doing the work for this entire voyage…especially as I had no earthly idea how long this voyage was to take.

I was a bit confused, however. What had he meant about the water? Thus far I had noticed the incessant swaying of the ship—after the harshness of the sunlight, it was one of the first things that had seemed perceptible. I was actually quite proud of myself for having not felt even so much as a single bout of seasickness yet. The swaying was annoying, but tolerable after everything had seemed like it was swaying so much more less than twenty-four hours ago. It hadn't seemed particularly calm to me, though it was definitely no raging storm. But if it was _the_ calmest we were going to get, I was in for one hell of a time.

"Are you always this flirtatious, I wonder? I'm almost jealous, Elena. It's not anything like the behavior you showed me last night."

The frown quickly turned into a scowl. "Ha ha." Just the person I _hadn't_ wanted to see. And what was up with his need to slip innuendo into every single sentence that left his lips? His filthy lips, I might add. The gold-and-silver rainbow residing in his mouth was obvious proof that he didn't take care of his teeth the way that Will did.

He had crept up beside me instantaneously without my noticing almost as soon as Mr. Turner had departed for some unknown duty or other. Grr. I wouldn't be surprised if he had army-crawled over all the way on his ship's soaked deck just in order to irritate me further with his inexplicable powers of silent approach. Or maybe he just knew that I would be no happier with his presence than if he had come up to me being as noisy as possible in a gargantuan pair of clogs and went into an Irish river-dance.

I would be thoroughly detesting him either way, and now that I really thought about it, he was probably aware of this fact. And I was too angry with him for seeming to know everything to bother sympathizing the fact that it was a lose-lose situation for him in this case.

"Do you _always_ kidnap an innocent young woman straight out of bars and trap her on a sailing vessel that she knows absolutely nothing about while she's suffering from a state of inebriation and has done absolutely nothing to you in the entirety of her life?"

"Well, maybe the young woman shouldn't have gotten herself intoxicated in the first place if she already knows she can't handle her liquor. Besides, love, I'm a pirate."

I had been trying not to look at him, as the smug was already discernible through his tone of voice alone and I didn't want to look at his face for fear of making it worse. But I could take it no longer; I whipped around (much to my dizzy mind's horror) and glowered at him. There was the smirk. His eyes were dancing with amusement, as though my anger was something to be watched on some sort of soap opera and not the actual feeling of a living, breathing person.

He was detestable, somehow even more so than he had been the previous night in all my drunken glory. I couldn't stand how smug his every action was, particularly the last little bit he had tacked onto his response. As though that was adequate justification for every single fault in the world, and as though he was _better_ than me simply because of his job occupation. Stupid pirates. Stupid pirates with overpowering, liquid-like eyes and a grin to rival Satan himself.

It was silent for a few brief moments as there was an unspoken staring contest between the two of us while I kept up my glare. He won, needless to say.

Smirk widening, he continued to talk to me, for reasons unknown. "But of course, we were speaking hypothetically just then, weren't we?" he mused. My scowl was infallible. "It has inevitably come to my attention, in any case, that you seem to be in a considerably better state than you have been. Therefore I can't help but wonder…when you were planning on getting to work?" And he looked truthfully confused by this, eyebrows quirking as his head tilted to one side while he studied me. I felt similar to some gruesome reptile exhibit in the zoo.

My mouth dropped open. I could very well have died from some disease that my immune system was ill-suited to combat in such an environment and he was still set on having me onboard his ship for another _crew member_? "Of all the—what work would that possibly be!? The last time I checked, I don't owe you anything! I didn't even know you and you put me here against my will! If anything, you should take me home. _Now_."

"Which way would home be?"

"…" I hesitated, having not expected him to comply so willingly. Momentarily dropping my anger as I had to temporarily think about all the unfamiliar scenery (so far, I had the options of blue, blue, and more blue all around me as clues to just where we were at the moment), I finally turned down the corners of my mouth again for fear that he would think I was forgiving him. "Take me back to Port Royal and I can find it from there."

"I'm afraid Port Royal's out of the question. So you can't go home. So I would suppose that leaves work as one of the only other things to take up your time at the moment."

"No!"

And Jack was suddenly smirking again, regarding me with open amusement. The palm of my hand tingled as I contemplated striking his face with the flat of it. He had already known I would say no and saw fit to ask anyway. And he still wouldn't take me home no matter what. I could see it as plain as day across his face. I was fuming, ready to explode like a volcano. Screaming would have been a magnificent option, only I think it would have signified that he had won this round of verbal browbeating.

Inhaling sharply, I struggled to control myself while he sidled around so that he was facing me from an angle, partially to my side and halfway in front of me. "What do you even _want_ from me?" I demanded, attempting to perfect a convincing display of both stoicism and authority. I had the sinking feeling that I was failing miserably at both, but chose not to admit to my defeat openly. Almost instantly I regretted the question—chances were I would either receive an answer regarding what our conversation had been about at the bar last night or something far more perverted from his seemingly one-track mind. Though perhaps it wasn't so one-track after all; he had been more observant than me while hauling my frame all around Port Royal until he got to the docks.

Especially in the midst of that run-in with whatever commodore it was that wanted Jack arrested for life. I didn't blame him. But I hadn't even noticed that torch there (it might have had something to do with the fact that my position had been on the dirt, sprawled out and too dizzy to stand up on my own). It had been quick thinking on his behalf, though I would rather he have not noticed a single thing and wound up behind bars.

Norrington probably thought I was some cliché damsel in distress. And now Will, come to think of it. I _knew_ Reno did; he saw fit to mock whatever girly habits I had picked up on a daily basis, after which I would always be forced to remind him curtly that I was, in fact, a girl. I am still waiting for this realization to sink in with some shock to him and teach him that, while I am an efficient Turk, my thoughts, wants, and needs are more often than not different than a twenty-something-year-old, red-haired male with nothing better to do in his life than torture and/or blow people up, then go out to a bar and not come into work in the morning until at least an hour after the assigned time.

It was sad that what everyone else saw as the charming qualities of a girl needing her hero, Reno and Jack seemed to see for what it was: klutziness. And Tseng, of course, didn't see anything at all but the mouthpiece of his cell phone. Or possibly the cup of coffee when he pulled an all-nighter on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Rather than answer immediately, Sparrow stalled. As usual. I couldn't comprehend his hand motions at all as he lifted up a finger. It was almost like he was preparing to check the wind's direction, but he couldn't seem to find what position he wanted to put it in. Finally he clenched his hand into a ball and returned it to his side. If I ever understand the man, I'll be sure to let you all know in the future. "Tell me, darling," he began suddenly, "how much longer do you suspect you would have lasted in a place like that, being as…er, intoxicated as you were?" His eyes were opened wider than I had yet to see them—or possibly I just hadn't been observing closely enough last night.

Again, I noticed the close and unexpected proximity between our faces and sidled an inch or so away from him. Not only am I semi-claustrophobic, but I feared the repercussions of breathing in the same oxygen as he. The question itself was also not what I had quite expected from the gaudily dressed buccaneer. It had been so casually stated, but raised an issue I had yet to think over with myself. Unfortunately, as I get more and more frustrated and impatient, I fail to think things over as I should. It was one of the many qualities in a hot-headed blonde that had caused me numerous mistakes out on my Turk missions, and a sense of something like self-detestation at times.

Reno and Rude never made such clumsy mistakes, for all that they were both far more liberal than I would ever be. Inelegance was such a costly quality, and the level with which I held myself was always quite low whenever such mistakes of mine happened. But then again, my self-esteem was never exactly a mountain peak. Actually performing my job isn't as bad as one might think. I faced difficulties the first few times, but as the body and mind grow accustomed to habit, nothing else matters, and consciousness gives way to subconscious. Sadly, it's when I'm alone in my apartment that I battle the constant issue of feeling like the awkward, misunderstood young woman in a harsh world rather than when I am out rearranging people's body parts like a jigsaw puzzle.

We all have weaknesses, however, so I am not about to list these complaints aloud.

"I…well…um…" I was slowly stammering off into my sentence as I slowly but surely realized that Jack Sparrow was not truthfully the worst company that could have come along and picked me up while I was so vulnerable last night. Even if it sure seemed like it. Had Jack yet to bring me physical harm, with the exception of my headache? No. Had he molested me, or otherwise brought about inappropriate contact between the two of us? Well, aside from hoisting me up like a sack of garden-grown vegetables, no, he hadn't.

In comparing him to the rest of the men that had been present in the tavern, I had actually gotten out lucky. And this little realization hit me like an oncoming eighteen-wheeler over about five layers of ice.

"Mm. So the lady _shouldn't_ have gotten herself intoxicated after all," he nodded.

From the subtle sarcasm underlying his tone, I could already tell that normally he would prefer women to be intoxicated almost constantly on their best days. That raised several other questions, including the reason for which he had gotten me out of there if I mattered so little and was apparently so lacking of intelligence. It wasn't like I had even remotely been his problem before he had sat down at my table and fairly egged on my downing of rum.

He continued as though completely oblivious to the fact that he had gained any such foothold in the conversation between the two of us, going on as though he was always this conceited one-hundred percent of the time, whether or not he was the victor in any debating. "I would take this as a sign to signify that you are indeed aware now of the fact that I saved your life—to return the favor is your choice entirely, but it would be such a shame was I forced to live with any…er, regrets."

My eyes narrowed. He was scarcely the type to come across as ever feeling anything that even hinted at remorse, much less even a second thought. Perhaps only if he missed out on his hourly alcoholic beverage. Otherwise, I wondered if there was anything he lamented over, anything he felt any such semblance of apologetic behavior over. That would be nice, as much as I otherwise detested his behavior. To never have to worry or feel that you had done something wrong, whatever the actual case might be—I was pretty sure I could never perfect such lack of morals, though.

But I remained silent. He _had_ saved my life, and I hated feeling indebted. Whatever it was that he wanted, I could probably pay it off and then be out of here in no time. So long as he didn't mistake me for a prostitute or anything like that, which I wouldn't put past him either.

He leaned forward, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had now taken to swaying on a near-constant basis, as easily as the wind was filling up and leaving the sails. I now noticed for the first time through my bleary-eyed gaze that he was considerably more graceful on sea-legs than he had been on land. On land he more resembled a lizard running around in a perpetually drunken stupor. Or at least that seemed like the probable possibility. I haven't exactly seen a drunken lizard before, but his freakish hand motions combined with his seemingly untrustworthy, wobbly step brought that as the only comparison in my mind.

Now it was so much more elegant. I wasn't having much trouble right now at all, but the occasional lurches and sways were giving me more than a few dips of my own. For him, it was like some kind of art form. Vaguely I wondered how long he had spent his life at sea—and then quickly put the thought from my mind. That didn't matter, because he was criminal and I didn't care anyway.

"It's all I ask, love. As you can see—" He paused abruptly in the midst of his sentence to gesture wide around the ship with his arms. It was completely empty as far as I could see; Will must have gone somewhere below deck. "—my crew is in rather a sad state at the moment. I require a little return for the favor of getting you out of there alive and well. Say it's not too much, eh?"

There must have been something showing in my face, for as hard as I was trying not to even look his way—a difficult feat, with him only two or so feet away—something slipped through my resolve right then. Stupid, stupid pirates. Finally I glanced towards him, stiffened my back, and attempted to make up for the head-and-a-half distance between our heights. My feet ached and stung bitterly within the high heels that I was apparently still wearing, and while my desire for a nice, hot shower instantly tripled, I was at least grateful for the slight boost I was being allowed from them. "Fine." Already Jack's mouth was opening to give some sort of response that was no doubt more amused than he was entitled to do, so I cut him short by jamming my pale finger directly into his chest. For all of my five-foot-two glory, I at least had several long, painful months of Turk training to back me up. "But I am _not_ a part of my crew, you are _not_ my captain, and so help me, you _will_ take me home!"

The eccentric pirate seemed as oblivious to the wrath of my anger as ever. "Ah! There's a good girl!" The responding glare he received only seemed to make his grin widen, exposing another two silver and gold teeth. It was like I was nothing more than some irritable Chihuahua that he had decided to get as a pet. Little dogs always work like that. The angrier they get, the louder they become, and the more it seems to just make people laugh.

But his face suddenly straightened out, though I could have sworn that he was still containing laughter somewhere in there. "Look, Elena, was it? I can assure you that, were it actually in my power, you would be on your way home at this very moment. I have a venture quite important to myself that I would be grateful for your assistance on. There aren't many lasses out there who have your expendable knowledge of how to fight," he explained, though it was about as helpful an explanation as handing a Lego construction booklet to a newly assigned engineer to a rocket ship and telling them to get started. "What I require on my jaunt is numerous battles. And I have every confidence that this is all within your abilities."

His eyes were shining, causing me to tilt my head back with some displeasure. It made me look shorter for one thing, but I hated the intensity that he was able to take on at a moment's notice. Wasn't the seventeenth century supposed to be mainly towards the belief that a woman's greatest fulfillment in life was to her husband, children, and home? All men were stupid, pig-headed bastards that just believed in their own chauvinistic theories and never gave young girls like me a fighting chance.

Yet here was the one man I was starting to hate most on the planet telling me that the very reason I was even still here, onboard a ship and not suffering from untold tormenting that no woman should have to put up with even after making the mistake of a night at the bar was because I _could_ fight. His ideas and beliefs about me and my personality seemed to be flip-flopping with every second, and while this new revelation was unfortunately pleasing, I hated him all the more for it.

His brown eyes were regarding me absorbedly, as though waiting for something. So I stuck my ski-slope a fraction of a degree upward (as though that could make me any taller) and kept my rejoinders to a minimum, overly hostile manner. "Just so long as you don't expect me to start…_hauling the masts_ or whatever, then I suppose I can help. Just for a little while." I thought with dread that this was going to take more than the weekend I had originally hoped for, but on the bright side, perhaps this would provide the perfect opportunity for getting Reno fired.

All of these years of waiting and it finally took someone else that I seemed to hate even more—I had, of course, thought that impossible—to get rid of the original subject of my loathing. But my tomato-haired comrade deserved it for subjecting me to all of this. Going out to one of the other worlds had been his idea, and if I could gain considerable information on this planet, surely everyone back at ShinRa would understand that none of this was my fault in the least. Hopefully I could get off with only a thousand or so sheets of paperwork to fill out rather than a pink slip.

My least favorite adventuring swashbuckler's grin was crooked, I saw with a great deal of aggravation. It was as though he already knew of my OCD and was attempting to push it to its most extreme limits. "As a lady of such high rank," he began, pausing to give me a sardonic half-bow before switching his wide eyes pointedly in the direction of the nearest staircase that led down below, "I'm sure you expect different quarters?"

"Well—"

"Fantastic. William should already be investigating the quality of the bunks for the rest of the crew I shall gather myself in a short time. He can lead you to your room. I highly recommend you not expect a grand suite, Princess," Jack advised. I suppose that the tone was meant to come off as courteous, but the entire time I could manage no other expression on my face for him than a look equivalent to swallowing several lemons covered in salt.

It was too much for me. The addition of another nickname, the hinting that my area of occupancy was to be nothing more than closet-sized—and all the while, he was so blatantly, nauseatingly haughty. I slammed my foot down and turned, ready to storm off. But consequently tripped myself over my high heels. Regaining my balance quickly, I yanked off the shoes with as much dignity as I could muster, and attempted not to think about what disgusting liquids and germs must have passed over this deck before my bare feet tread on it. As I was walking away with a great amount of infuriated gusto, I could hear him chuckling behind me. The Cheshire Cat grin I could imagine on his face was a good deal worse than Reno's. Or maybe I was just used to my Turk companion's own devil-incarnate grin after so many years and thus this one had a higher effect on me.

Forget whatever deals had been made. I was ready to jump off the ship and swim back to whatever land I could find if I had to. I would make my own way home, or die trying. And actually, dying didn't seem so bad after this throbbing hangover.

"You really shouldn't fall for dear William, by the way. He's already betrothed." _That_ got me to stop in my tracks. I meant what I said when I told you that I have no romantic interests in Will whatsoever, but it explained whatever reasons he might have for continuing to persevere when he looked so dreadfully tired. "That would be why he wants to go gallivanting around the entire world, looking for her. I fail to see the attraction or the reasons for wanting one such distressing damsel, but apparently she means the world to him. It'd be a shame if he failed to rescue her from all odds and evils, I reckon," he continued slowly.

My fists were slowly clenching and unclenching. If Jack were truthfully a moron as he sometimes chose to come across, he could have chosen something so much more blunt to rub my nerves raw than he had. Damn him; he was observant and apparently skilled at turning whatever he needed to his own advantage. When you have fired off a gun such as I have in the past, you stop being a hopeless romantic, no matter what frilly interests you might keep up in your own time.

But one never exactly stops _hoping_ that love is still somewhere out there…

I didn't want to let Will down, despite having only known him for a matter of minutes. There was something friendly and easygoing about him. And it would be even more of a shame if I were to leave him all alone with Jack.

I could hear the scuffing of my kidnapper's boots along the wood as he turned to attend business that I would rather know nothing about. I am a nautical novice and would like to keep it that way as long as possible. Killing, I can do. Main ropes and mizzen masts? Not so much. "Take this, lass, as a chance to rethink your decision on helping out with crew duties. It can get frightfully dull on a ship with nothing to do. I wouldn't want you fainting from sun-stroke or any such thing along those lines." He snorted, and continued to retreat while I wished there was something a little less heavy than the full crates lining the deck to chuck at his medallion-covered, bandana-donning head.

"Our first stop is Tortuga. Great place to practice on building up your level of alcohol intake, love."

---

The rest of the day was uneventful. I would be a bit more dull and depressed about this fact if I could, but after my conversation with the infamous Jack Sparrow, I was grateful for any time passed that wasn't in his presence. Finding Will had proven to be no trouble at all, and after being directed my room, I had been forced to leave him alone. A real conversation would have been nice, desirable really considering my only other company on this big hulk of a boat. But knowing Jack, he would be barking orders at the young man all day long, and I didn't want to get him into any trouble.

Nor did I want to let him know how much pity I felt for him. Unrequited love is really something, isn't it?

I was right in suspecting my room to be claustrophobic. It was filthy, covered in grime and the kind of mold that only accumulates with the constant presence of water in the air, which is of course only attainable upon a ship. At least it was orderly, this being mostly because it was completely devoid of anything besides one lone cot shoved up against the pitiful excuse of a wall. I had shuddered upon seeing it, not even bothering to ask if there were any previous stains on it. At this point, I just didn't want to know. There was no window in the room. Had my claustrophobia been any worse than it was regarding other people's close proximity to my face, I might have gone immediately insane upon stepping in there.

But I was still tired after last night's adventures, and after such an exhausting conversation with someone I was beginning to hate entirely so easily. Another nap didn't sound half bad right about now, much as I would rather detest all of Sparrow's suggestions. Oh well. At least it wasn't like he had actually meant anything he had suggested.

I might have cried after the first hour or so if I wasn't so irreversibly a Turk. There were far worse things that could have happened to be. If I was weak enough to be so pitifully lost in an unfamiliar world and kidnapped besides, then I somewhat deserved it. And I would get out of here, at least.

I was vaguely reminded of Alice. That had been my favorite of all the fairy tales I read growing up as a child. The little blonde girl who fell down a rabbit hole into a strange place, desperate to get back. She hadn't wanted to go among mad people either.

I already had a pretty fair idea of who would be my Mad Hatter. Only I was quite certain that what was in his favorite bottles couldn't possibly be tea.

* * *

**A/N:** Mmm. So much fun. It's just a little shorter than my last chapter, but I'm just proud for conquering my writer's block and getting on with the description. The next chapter should be longer, I hope.

D: I would totally make AMVs to this sort of thing if there were more clips of Elena. Ah well. At least I got to do one for Kaixel.

OH. And expect responses to my four reviews I got on the last chapter when I'm not so tired. I promise I'll come back and edit. :3


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